


Strict Justice

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [11]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthurian legend - Freeform, Bear King, Berserker!Arthur, First Kiss, M/M, Magic Reveal, canon AU, remix eligible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4131094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly gruelling battle, Merlin and Arthur share a quiet moment in their tent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strict Justice

**Author's Note:**

> So I was thinking about how, according to the legends, Arthur once killed something like 900 men in a single battle. And then I got to thinking about Berserkers, and how Arthur basically means "bear," and this fic was the result.

_I have always found that mercy bears richer fruit than strict justice._

— Abraham Lincoln.

 

 

“Arthur? _Arthur_.”

 

The voice sounds familiar, and scared, but it is somehow difficult to place, coming as it does as if from a great distance. He knows that this is his name, and he knows he should respond, but he isn’t sure of what to say.

 

“Arthur,” the voice says again, urgent and insistent. “It’s all right, sire, you’re safe. We won. Please, just — let go of the sword. You’re scaring the knights.”

 

Blinking stupidly, Arthur raises his head. He’s kneeling on the battlefield, sword stuck in the ground in front of him like a monument, his hands wrapped around the hilt. He’s surrounded by bodies, dead or dying, although a little further off he can see a cluster of men in Pendragon-red, huddled together and watching him as if uncertain whether to approach. The river-rapid roar of his thoughts recedes somewhat, as the awareness of his surroundings re-asserts itself. He has never wanted to be the sort of king his own men are afraid of.

 

“There you are,” says the voice, full of relief, and Arthur for the first time registers that there’s a hand on his arm, a familiar face peering into his.

 

“Merlin?” he says.

 

“That’s me. Are you all right? You kind of, um. You were a bit terrifying, to be honest.”

 

Arthur shakes his head, although he’s not sure what he’s denying exactly. The strange numbing ache that has been holding him hostage retreats a little further, and he starts to get to his feet, only to stagger as a wave of exhaustion hits him.

 

“Hey, hey, take it easy.” In an instant, Merlin’s arm is around his waist, supporting him, his body firm and solid against Arthur’s side. “Lean on me, I’ve got you.”

 

Arthur holds onto him, more out of reflex than anything else. He’s remembering things all jumbled up, the fighting and the blood and all the men around him dying, and somewhere in the middle of it all he remembers Merlin, falling beneath another man’s sword.

 

“Are you hurt?” he asks, looking at his manservant sidelong. He can see no evidence of injury, but that doesn’t necessarily mean there isn’t one. “I saw you — I thought — “

 

Merlin blinks up at him, eyes round with confusion. “I’m fine,” he says, a slight frown furrowing his brow. “Gods, Arthur, I’m not the one who just single-handedly took down an entire army.”

 

“Not an _entire_ army, surely,” Arthur protests, more habit than anything, and is gratified to see Merlin’s startled smile. “Really, Merlin, there’s no need to exaggerate.”

 

“Of course not, sire,” Merlin says, obviously smothering a laugh. They’re moving together now, a drunken, three-legged sort of walk down the hill towards Arthur’s men. Merlin’s hands are tight on his arms, and he can feel him even through the mail, which shouldn’t be possible but somehow is — just like Merlin still being alive beside him, just like the impossible battlefield they’re leaving behind.

 

By the time they reach the copse where the knights are standing, Arthur is walking under his own power, regaining control of his limbs and his emotions as he moves. He tries to pretend nothing out of the ordinary has happened, in spite of the clear apprehension on his friends’ faces.

 

“Sire,” Sir Leon starts, stepping forward. “Are you well?”

 

“I think so,” Arthur says, because he doesn’t _feel_ as though he’s been wounded. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”

 

“And no wonder,” Gwaine mutters from behind them, although he stops talking when Sir Percival elbows him in the side and coughs. Arthur glares at them both, feeling oddly embarrassed.

 

“I’ll go with him back to the camp and get him cleaned up,” Merlin says, as if determined to be cheerful. “Most of the blood doesn’t belong to him, anyway, thank god.”

 

Leon protests a little, saying something about Merlin being just as exhausted as the king and in need of rest, but Merlin says simply that it’s his job and refuses to be moved. It’s strange, hearing himself discussed in the third person, as if he’s not standing _right there_ listening to every word, but Arthur finds his exhaustion is such that he can’t really bring himself to mind all that much. He’s never felt like this before, not even after the most gruelling of battles in his youth. It reminds him of the first time he’d ever wielded a broadsword, how his muscles had ached right down to the bone. When Merlin wins the argument and leads him gently back to the camp and to the tent they both share, he goes willingly, without protest. He’ll take care of everything else in a minute, he thinks. Right now, he needs — he just needs this; the two of them, the quiet after the storm. The rest of the world can wait, just a few more minutes longer.

 

 

 

 

Merlin makes him sit down and begins to remove his armour, and Arthur takes the opportunity just to watch him. There’s a stiffness in the way he moves that is familiar; he’s known Merlin tired before, and he’s seen him injured, enough that he knows this is merely the former and not the awkwardness that comes from a concealed and possibly deadly wound. It is becoming more and more difficult to believe that, not long ago, he had been convinced that Merlin was dead.

 

“What happened out there?” Arthur hears himself asking, before he’s even made up his mind to speak. “When you — I thought I saw you fall.”

 

Merlin glances up at him. His eyelashes are impossibly long for a man, which ought to make him look ridiculous, but doesn’t.

 

“I did fall,” he says absently, removing Arthur’s hauberk with practiced ease. “Tripped over my own feet. I was lucky, though — managed to avoid getting skewered, thanks to Gwaine.”

 

Arthur doesn’t say anything — _can’t_ say anything — and Merlin goes on, not looking at him now, focused on cleaning the blood from Arthur’s face and throat.

 

“Before, when you asked if I was all right,” he says, his voice very quiet. “Were you — did you think  that I —?”

 

“Yes,” Arthur says, because he can’t say _yes, I thought you were dead, I just slaughtered an entire army of men for killing you_ , even though he knows, somehow, that this is what Merlin is really asking.

 

Merlin’s hands go still for a moment against his skin, and Arthur waits, watching the down-turned face for some hint of Merlin’s reaction. It shouldn’t matter this much, he knows — Merlin is just a servant, not even a very good one, but the fact remains that he is _Arthur’s_ servant, and he has never been ‘just’ anything, no matter what Arthur’s sense of propriety has had to say on the matter. Finally, Merlin clears his throat and begins moving again, sponging dried gore from Arthur’s neck with slow deliberation.

 

“You scared me, sire,” he says, soft. “The way you fought, you were so angry, so — all I could think was any second your luck had to run out, and then I’d have to watch you — “

 

Arthur catches his wrist. “Merlin.”

 

“I’m just saying,” Merlin says, taking a deep breath. “I’m just saying that I know — how it feels. To think that. About you.”

 

And he’s looking straight into Arthur’s eyes now, like he’s trying to convey something important, and the expression on his face makes Arthur’s cheeks burn with a strange combination of embarrassment and lust.

 

“Merlin,” he says again, but whatever he’s trying to say gets lost somewhere in his throat and he ends up just making a helpless gesture with his hands, trying to convey the enormity of it — the loss, and the relief at it having been unfounded. Merlin smiles at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling up, and then he does a surprising thing. He puts down the cloth and kneels before Arthur, not in a subservient way, but as if he needs to look up at him to speak, as if some things can only truly be said between king and subject.

 

Arthur blinks at him. “What — ?”

 

“I have to tell you something,” Merlin says, and he has his hands on Arthur’s knees, then in his own lap, licking his lips as if nervous, though about what Arthur couldn’t say. His eyes are clear, though, and steady on Arthur’s face. “You don’t have to — I mean, I _can_ take care of myself, Arthur.”

 

“Are you joking? You can barely take care of _me_ , I’ve never met someone so incompetent—“

 

“No, I mean — “ He takes a deep breath, and blurts: “I have magic.”

 

Arthur closes his mouth.

 

“I’ve always had it, ever since I was born, but I swear I’ve only used it for good. Well, and to do some of my chores, of course, but that’s only because you insist on giving me more than anyone could possibly hope to get done in one day, and no one in their right mind is going to stay up all night polishing your boots when they can just — not that I’ve ever been in my right mind, I suppose, if you listen to you and Gaius, but — you’re not saying anything. Arthur, please say something.”

 

The king shakes his head, more out of astonishment than anything, but stops when Merlin’s expression turns frightened. He is reminded of the way the knights had looked at him on the battlefield; reminded of just how much power he has to do harm, both as Merlin’s sovereign and, worse, as his friend.

 

“You’re a sorcerer,” he says slowly, trying it out.

 

Merlin nods. Some of the blood from Arthur’s surcoat has smeared along his neck, like a hideous presentiment, and Arthur has to fight the urge to wipe it away lest it prove prophetic.

 

“And you came to Camelot, why?”

 

“My mother thought I’d be safer, in a bigger city. People in small towns, well, they tend to notice things.”

 

Arthur has to laugh. “Safer? In _Camelot_?”

 

“Well,” and here Merlin looks sheepish. “She might also have hoped that I could get some instruction here, and learn how to control my magic.”

 

Arthur says nothing, because there isn’t anything to say; of all the secrets Merlin could have been hiding, this is the most unexpected and somehow the most obvious. They’ve had so many discussions over the years, about magic, about the people who use it and what should be done to them. He can vividly recall Merlin saying, as little as a few weeks previously, _there can be no place for magic in Camelot_. And now, not only is Merlin himself claiming to be a sorcerer but he’s saying that Gaius — for it must be Gaius, could only be him — has been teaching him how to use it, this power that he should not have, which means not only is his _manservant_ a traitor but the physician who has treated him from birth as well.

 

“Show me,” he says, in the same tone as another man might say, _kill me_.

 

Merlin looks nonplussed. “Sire?”

 

“Show me your magic. What can you do?”

 

Arthur waits, his arms folded across his chest, as Merlin’s glance skitters away from him, no longer frightened but still wary. It’s a struggle to keep his breathing even and measured, so as not to betray the tumult going on inside of him, the push-pull of fear and curiosity and anger. Will Merlin still obey him, now that his secret is out, or will he defy him openly? Does Arthur _want_ an excuse to turn against him? And why is he thinking about executing Merlin, a self-confessed traitor, as if it’s the last thing he could ever make up his mind to do?

 

Finally, Merlin makes a defeated noise and holds out his hand, palm upward.

 

“ _Leoht,_ ” he murmurs, his eyes flashing gold. Arthur does his best not to start with surprise as a familiar ball of glowing blue light appears in the air above his manservant's palm.

 

“That was you?” he asks, unable to help himself. He reaches out to touch, then thinks better of it. “All this time?”

 

“Since the beginning,” Merlin says. The promise underlying his words — the way he looks up at Arthur as he says them, with the same devotion he has always shown — makes the king feel oddly breathless. “I told you. I’ve only ever used it for you.”

 

And at last, Arthur can only nod, accepting this as the truth. After today, he knows what it is to be the master of frightening forces bent on a single aim; to use every means at your disposal in the service of another. He has to believe Merlin would use whatever power he has to protect Arthur, too. It is simply what they do, what they are to each other.

 

He makes his decision.

 

“All right.”

 

Merlin looks up at him, frowning. “That’s it? All right? You’re not going to yell at me for lying to you all these years, or have me executed at dawn, or — “

 

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupts. “After this morning, do you really believe I would willingly harm you?”

 

A deep blush floods Merlin’s cheeks, and he looks down, almost-but-not-quite smiling.

 

“I guess not.”

 

“Then stop looking a gift horse in the mouth, you idiot. I’m still angry with you. In fact, I’m _furious_. But I think — I think if you explain — well, I think I’ll be willing to listen, given time.”

 

Merlin is beaming, an expression which, in Arthur’s opinion, makes him look even more witless than usual, but which is nevertheless strangely satisfying.

 

“Maybe not straight away,” he adds as an afterthought, ignoring the way Merlin’s face falls a little and pushing himself to his feet. He closes the short distance between them easily enough, Merlin still on his knees, his eyes following Arthur as they always have. “There’s something else I need to do first.”

 

This isn’t the way he expected this to happen, but in his more honest moments he has to admit that he _did_ expect it, eventually. Kissing Merlin is — familiar, in an odd sort of way. The other man’s mouth is soft and pliant under his, yielding completely at the slightest touch of Arthur’s tongue and yet, somehow, managing to make it seem not in the least bit like surrender. It reminds him of Merlin himself to an extent, how he constantly challenges Arthur with his failure to heed royal protocol or treat him with the proper respect and yet can turn inexplicably into the most faithful servant given the right provocation. Merlin’s hands are feather-light on Arthur’s face as he rises to meet him, gentle, and perhaps a little disbelieving, while the rest of their bodies are pressed together, so close that Arthur can feel Merlin’s warmth through the loose material of his shirt.

 

“Never scare me like that again,” he whispers against Merlin’s mouth, and Merlin makes a sound that might be agreement, shuddering under Arthur’s hands as he slides them down to rest at his hips. “You are forbidden from ever dying, do you understand?”

 

“Yes, sire,” Merlin murmurs, between nipping at Arthur’s lips. “No dying. Got it. I’ll do my best not to age or get sick, either, shall I?”

 

Arthur laughs, deep in his throat. “That would be acceptable.”

 

When Arthur next pulls away, Merlin looks a little dazed, and Arthur can’t help smiling smugly at the thoroughly snogged expression on his face. He brushes the blood from Merlin’s neck with his thumb, scratching at it with the fingernail until it flakes away to leave the skin pale and untarnished, then sets about marking it again with his teeth, pushing Merlin’s damnable neckerchief out of the way. Merlin moans, tipping his head to allow Arthur better access, his fingernails digging into Arthur’s biceps so hard it almost hurts, and Arthur hums his approval, the sound coming out like a purr.

 

Then, without warning, Merlin jerks away from Arthur’s ministrations and blurts out, “Gwen!” like he’s remembered something hugely important, and Arthur frowns, a little irritated at the interruption.

 

“I sincerely hope kissing me doesn’t make you think about _Guinevere_ ,” he says, a little put out.

 

“But — I mean — shouldn’t it?” Merlin stammers desperately. “I mean, the two of you are — “

 

“The two of us _were_ ,” Arthur says with careful emphasis, studying the warlock curiously. “I thought you knew. It’s not as if we don’t…I still care for her deeply, you know. But she will always love Lancelot over me.”

 

“And you’re okay with that?”

 

Arthur shrugs. “I’ve come to understand that there is room for more than one love in a person’s heart. And that, perhaps, Guinevere and I are alike in that regard.”

 

If possible, Merlin’s eyes grow even rounder. “Are you trying to tell me that you _love_ me? Like Gwen loves Lance?”

 

For a second, Arthur considers taking it back, considers saying _no that’s not what I meant_ ; he knows Merlin would accept it without question if he did, no matter how much it might hurt him to believe it. It’s like being poised at the edge of a cliff, and though his manservant may have been the one on his knees, Arthur has long since relinquished the idea that _he’s_ the one in control of this situation; he could fall, or be pushed, at any moment.

 

To answer with anything other than the truth, however, would be the act of a coward, and Arthur has never been the sort of man to run from the things that scare him.

 

“Honestly, Merlin,” he says, careless though his heart is thundering. “I would have thought that much was obvious. I don’t go taking on entire _armies_ for just anyone, you know.”

 

“I thought it was only _most_ of an army, sire,” Merlin says, a slow grin blossoming on his face. And really, it does make him look like an utter idiot, but he’s _Arthur’s_ idiot, and Arthur rather likes it that way. “Now who’s exaggerating?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arthur replies, with kingly dignity, but then he spoils it by laughing out loud and dragging Merlin in close for another kiss. Merlin tangles his fingers agreeably in Arthur’s hair, and Arthur thinks that kingly dignity, for all its merits, is perhaps overrated. Not that he’d ever admit anything of the sort to _Mer_ lin, of course. He’d never hear the end of it.

 

There’s still the matter of Merlin’s magic to address, however, and Arthur wishes somewhat selfishly that Merlin had only picked a better _time_ to go about revealing the fact that he more or less embodied everything Arthur had been taught to despise. Like, say, _after_ Arthur had fucked him into the mattress back in his rooms in Camelot, preferably more than once. But the wiser part of him knows that if Merlin hadn’t told him before they’d taken that step, he might never have been able to forgive him for it.

 

He presses one last kiss into Merlin’s mouth, a promise, then steps away from him, hands lingering briefly on Merlin’s arms and shoulders. He forces himself to say, “I should finish getting cleaned up. The men…”

 

“Yeah,” Merlin says. “Yeah, of course.”

 

He looks down, busying himself with the laces of Arthur’s boots, and its mostly instinct which prompts the king to catch hold of his arm and shake it, just a little, and say: “This conversation isn’t over, Merlin.”

 

“Sire?”

 

“Tomorrow, after we’ve both had some sleep, taken some time, I want — I would like it very much if you’d tell me about your magic. Everything you can do and have done, for Camelot.” _For me_. “If you are willing, of course.”

 

He doesn’t miss the flash of fear in Merlin’s face, or the way his fingers clench, white and uncomfortable, over Arthur’s ankle. Arthur is no fool; he knows that there are still secrets to be uncovered, unpleasant ones if Merlin’s reaction is any indication, and if Merlin chooses not to divulge them he has made up his mind to be patient and not press him, no matter how much he burns with the desire to know, and know _all_. But the next moment Merlin is nodding, resolute, and meeting Arthur’s eyes again with his own impossibly blue ones.

 

“Yes, sire,” he says, and Arthur smiles.  

 

They’re going to be all right. He’ll make sure of it.


End file.
